


Smile (Prelude)

by Fweeble



Series: Smile AU [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Secret Admirer, Wooing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-18
Updated: 2013-01-18
Packaged: 2017-11-25 22:33:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/643664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fweeble/pseuds/Fweeble
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All Dick wants is for Tim to smile again.</p><p>A sequel to "Why Don't You and I".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Smile (Prelude)

**Author's Note:**

> Loosely based off Missy Higgin's song "Smile".

It had hit him suddenly –Tim doesn’t smile anymore.   
  
He tries to think, tries to remember when it was last that he had seen Tim smiled. Last week? Last month?   
  
Life has been hectic lately –Dick had joined the Gotham PD after a slow week that left him splayed upside down on the couch with cookie crumbs on his face and the blue glow of the television three mornings in a row. The job is nice, familiar, and so is his Nightwing costume. It was easy, letting himself be swept away by the ebb and flow of daily life, easy to overlook Tim’s silence.  
  
Tim used to smile a lot; he used to laugh a lot –didn’t he? When was the last time that he had smiled, laughed so hard that he ended in breathless little gasps? Dick can’t remember and that’s not acceptable in the least bit.   
  
So he sets about his grand plan to cheer up Tim, because he’s special and Dick’s baby brother. It’s a big brother’s responsibility to make sure his little brother is always happy and loved.  
  
First order of business: Actually pin point  _when_  Tim last smiled and why he stopped smiling  _now_.   
  
He’s Dick Grayson, so that’s no problem.   
  
—  
  
“I just –I don’t understand.”    
  
It’s a night of beer and pizza –it’s been a hard night’s patrol and maybe he has been a bit too preoccupied with his Tim-worries. It’s been two months and Tim’s lips haven’t so much as twitched in the entire time, according to Babs. (He’s not above employing family friends to spy on his little brother –he’s Dick Grayson, big brother. It’s well within his rights.)  
  
It hadn’t been a secret that Tim and Kon had separated, but the  _why_  was. A secret so carefully guarded that even Babs and Bruce were unaware.  
  
Learning that the half-Kryptonian man who had once so easily declared himself Tim’s best friend had cheated on his little brother caused molten fury to burn somewhere deep within Dick. Trust broken, his brother –a shell without a façade.   
  
And that’s the worst part, the salt in the wounds. Tim doesn’t try to pretend, he doesn’t pull on his masks and personas, doesn’t hide behind the well-crafted walls he’s perfected since childhood. Everything is raw and open.  
  
Painful.   
  
It’s painful to watch, to stand by and be unable. Unable to heal, mend the shattered pieces before him.   
  
There is anger, rage and indignation at Kon’s betrayal, thoughts of Kryptonite rings and Batplanes and shadows for cover. Because if he cannot heal, then maybe he can break. Crush and fragment. Bring retribution and punishment, be karma personified, bring pain in return for pain.  
  
But mostly, there’s pain and loss, because Dick doesn’t know, because nothing comes to mind –what does Tim need? A broken Kon-El? No.  
  
Dick needs. He needs to see his little brother smile again.  
  
“Dick, I think you’re a little drunk.”  
  
“No, I’m fine.”  
  
“Dick, what were we just talking about?”  
  
Hadn’t they been talking about Kon, the cheating bastard?  
  
“Kon?”  
  
“Wrong. Try again.”  
  
Dick squints a bit at the can in his hand; he hasn’t had more than two cans, surely?  
  
“You’re on your fourth can.”  
  
“Thanks,” he replies, because Babs is watching him –that’s normal. He takes another swig and leans back, studies the spackle on the ceiling and broods. “I just don’t know.”  
  
He hears Babs hum gently into his ear, “When you’ve figured things out, call me.”  
  
Three more hours until sunrise, four and a half hours until he has to get ready for work. How long does he have to figure out whatever it is he’s supposed to figure out? Something tells him whatever it is, he doesn’t have forever to figure it out.  
  
—  
  
Like everything else in life, Dick realizes what  _it_  is abruptly and in the worst possible situation.  
  
It’s a Sunday and he’s managed to cajole Tim to come over for some brotherly bonding of movies, greasy potato chips, Zesti, and pizza. It’s great because Tim is relaxing into the couch, leaning just a bit into him as they watch some B grade zombie movie and things are almost normal –as if Tim hasn’t spent the last few months as listless as one would expect from a living undead; as if the Titans haven’t been in a disarray, walking on eggshells.   
  
Dick looks over at Tim, admires the gentle slope of the neck, the lightly pink, chapped lips, and realizes that maybe his intentions aren’t as brotherly as he thought it was.  
  
He’d like to kiss those lips.   
  
—  
  
Dick likes to spend some time with everyone in the family; sometimes he’ll suffer through a training session with Bruce, sometimes he’ll drag a reluctant Damian to the movies, sometimes he’ll show up at Jason’s with a pack of beer (he usually gets the door slammed in his face, but it’s the effort that counts, right?), and sometimes he’ll spend time with Cass.  
  
It’s a morning after a late visit turned into a sleepover in the manor and he has a bowl of cereal and the TV is on, pleasant background noise, as he tries to gather his muddled, sleep-laden thoughts. Cass is sitting by his feet, intent on her little project. When the sugar kicks in, he’ll ask her, but for now, he’s content to decode secret messages in his bowl.  
  
So far, he’s found the word ‘love’ twice and ‘bro’ three times, and an assortment of gibberish, including the really interesting word ‘xzlthy’. He thinks he might’ve eaten a ‘Tim’ when he was distracted by the TV, it tasted like a ‘Tim’. Tim and love. And sugar.  
  
Alpha-Bits are great. They were even better with marshmallows. Marshmallows are good.  
  
There are paper animals scattered on the floor by the time Dick finishes his bowl. He knows that, sort of. It’s Japanese paper-folding, isn’t it?  
  
“That’s cool, Cass. Wanna teach me?” He settles down next to her, attentive.   
  
Cass smiles and hands him some glossy, textured paper.  
  
“For a frog. You fold this, then this. Then this.”  
  
Cass demonstrates, folding the paper quickly and efficiently, fingers dancing across the paper. It doesn’t take long for her to finish, and she places it delicately in front of Dick.   
  
“Again.”   
  
She folds more slowly this time, Dick cautiously folding when she folded, creasing when she creased, opening when she opened. They make a frog, a tulip, a lily.  
  
“Mom teach –taught,” Cass says while folding another crane, slowly so Dick can learn, “This… comforting.”  
  
It’s hard to imagine Shiva as anything remotely motherly or in conjunction with something tender like paper-folding, but it seems to be a memory Cass cherishes. Shiva, maternal or not, is Cass’s mother.  
  
“There special story to this. One thousand cranes to make one wish.”  
  
“Any wish?”  
  
“Yes. Any.”  
  
Cass has already made fifteen and Dick wonders what wishes Cass has made with those cranes, if any came true.   
  
He isn’t sure if he has any wish he wants fulfilled, all he really wants is –  
  
Tim’s smile.  
  
  
  
  
One thousand paper cranes for one smile.  
  
—  
  
Tim doesn’t smile, Tim doesn’t communicate. Tim is an open wound, festering alone in his tiny apartment with his plastic fish and lonely couch.   
  
Tim goes to the Titan Tower every weekend, pokes and prods at his scabs, reopening them, and returns to his tiny apartment, freshly opened wounds raw and bleeding.   
  
Dick has bought a book, a book with different origami patterns and learns, and finds he can fold more than fifteen cranes in an hour now. He wants to make Tim smile, but somehow, wishing it seems to be the cheap way out. He folds cranes and camellias and turtles, thinks about Tim in his tiny apartment with nothing but his fake fish and wounds that aren’t allowed to scar.   
  
It’s an afterthought, really, when Dick takes his pen and scrawls on the red square before him.  
  
Fact 000: I love you.  
  
It’s an impulsive act, but it feels right. He finds the page he’s looking for and folds.  
  
He’s not going to rely on the wish.   
  
—  
  
He’s taken to folding origami in his patrol car. There is always a pen and pad in the car and he scribbles little facts down as they come to him. It doesn’t take an hour to come up with the first fifty; the next fifty aren’t difficult, either. He whiles away his days with his day job, night job, origami, and thoughts of Tim.   
  
Babs –Babs agrees to help him when he calls.   
  
Roses are red, violets are blue, and Dick’s love is true.  
  
—  
  
It’s a bit ridiculous, the thought that crosses his mind when he crawls through Tim’s apartment window, alarms and security deactivated. Tim can’t hear his heartbeat, Tim isn’t a Super. Tim can’t see him, even with his eyelids shut. Tim doesn’t know he’s in the apartment, lurking in the shadows like a thief.   
  
He isn’t here to steal.  
  
He’s leaving a statement of intent. He’s going to woo Tim.  
  
Dick Grayson will be the reason Tim smiles.  
  
—  
  
When Tim calls, Dick has never been more thankful for Bruce’s tutelage in his life and manages to lie smoothly through the conversation.   
  
Maybe he’s not a stalker, but an admirer. Isn’t that nice? An admirer, Tim; someone who sees you, has fallen for you so deeply and completely. Someone loves you, Tim.  
  
It’s okay if he can sneak into your apartment –he obviously has no intention to harm you. Right? He could have the other night. But that’s not his aim. He wants something else.  
  
Something more precious, more coveted, than you know, Tim.   
  
When Tim hangs up, it’s with a sigh of frustration. Dick can only hope everything goes smoothly.  
  
—  
  
He folds gardenias –secret love, purity, joy.   
  
He makes two, because of the secret within the secret, a love that isn’t as innocent as the love between brothers, but still as pure.  
  
—  
  
As his experience and dexterity with origami increases, so does the complexity of the designs he folds. He creates little moving paper sculptures, creates wings that flap, tails that wag, legs that move. He starts to create his own patterns, creates for a chance, a possibility, a smile.   
  
—  
  
It’s been over a month. Tim no longer keeps the knife under his pillow, no longer calls Dick cranky with threats of future hauntings upon his untimely demise at the hands of a psychotic stalker.  
  
Babs continues to update Dick on password changes, continues to doctor video feeds, continues to lie when questioned.   
  
Dick is in serious debt, Babs will cash in on it.  
  
—  
  
A robin, because he regrets his mistakes, the words that caused the first schism between them. Wolves for fidelity and family, a turtle for longevity. A lotus for perfection and beauty, red tulips to cement his declaration, forget-me-nots because Tim will never be forgotten and he wishes neither will he, larkspur because Tim needs to know.  
  
Apple blossoms for himself, because he makes many promises. Promises to Bruce, promises to Babs, promises to Jason, Damian, Steph, Cass. Promises to Tim. Promises that he buries deep, for himself.  
  
Dick folds, runs out of paper, buys more, and folds. His pen runs out of ink, his note pad thins until finally there are no more pages. He replaces those.  
  
One more month.  
  
—  
  
One red rose a night, one small declaration of love.  
  
Ninety-nine red roses and one white rose for eternal love, thousands of cranes because it is a small, insignificant price to pay for all of Tim’s wishes.  
  
—  
  
Standing outside Tim’s door, heart brawling with his ribcage, box of cranes in his hands, Dick knows it has all amounted to this.  
  
Behind the door is Tim, potential, possibility, and maybe a future.  
  
A future of warm smiles, breathless laughter, and tender kisses.


End file.
